Waiting
by RIPStitches
Summary: In the small hours of the night, one cat keeps a solitary vigil. But why? Just a quick slushy drabble, no OC's. Slashy themes, even though nothing really happens.


The night wheels slowly by outside the window, the city sleeping uneasily under silent stars. The clock in the hall ticks the seconds clumsily away, long, shallow moments divided into clunking mechanical segments, while the cold moonlight from the high library window shifts imperceptibly from my elbow round towards my back, casting long shadows across the carpet, changing familiar objects into jagged turrets and angular faces, remnants from half-remembered dreams. I sigh and turn the page, the sound sudden and disruptive in the heavy silence. I need to learn this, I tell myself. I'm just enjoying the peace and quiet. The moonlight. You're not tired. Breathe. Concentrate. _You're not waiting for him. _

And with that single thought, that brief acknowledgement, I know as I have all along the real reason that I'm sitting alone through the watches of the night, staring unseeing at the same page of elaborate fourteenth century text, muscles screaming with pathetic, involuntary tension. _I'm not,_ I tell myself. _I'm not waiting for him._ _I can't be, I can't be that stupid. Not me. _

_But I am_.

The physical relief that comes with small act of admitting this to myself catches me unawares. I realise I've been holding my breath, my limbs give way all at the same time, and I collapse, gasping for air, onto the volume in front of me, my eyes screwed shut in self-loathing. I can't do this. I've got to make myself go to bed, stop thinking about – anything, just _stop this._ I jump up and pace wildly backwards and forwards on the tabletop, trying to think of anything other than him. Where is he? What's he doing? Is he smiling at someone the way he sometimes smiles at me, that quick half-grin that makes me weak? When, when will he come back? _Misto, you have to stop it. _Why isn't he back yet! What if he's hurt? Oh, Heaviside. I almost retch, images of his long–limbed body broken and abandoned, torn apart by dogs, hit by a car, his glorious mane ripped and sodden, laying siege to my mind in a relentless barrage of horror. I can't breathe again. _Now you're just being ridiculous, _I tell myself. Things like that don't happen to the Tugger. He can talk, charm or shag his way out of any situation. That's probably what he's doing now. Still...perhaps I should go out and look for him? Yes. I'll do that. I need to hunt anyway, I could just... NO! Oh, Everlasting, how did I get into this state? When did this happen?

I realise that I'm shaking, and force myself to sit down, breathe slowly and deeply, and let calming magic creep out from my centre and ease my knotted muscles. The clock strikes three, the sound resonating woefully through the dark house, and somewhere towards the heath a dog howls. I shiver, and feel calmer. I can beat this. I just have to go to bed, reach the sweet oasis of sleep, before he comes home, and tomorrow it'll be easier. I jump down from the table and begin to pad towards the hearth, the polished floors unexpectedly cold to the touch. _Don't come back now, Rum. I've got to hide from you. Let me sleep._

_Please come back._

As if in obedience to my unspoken plea, at that moment I hear the swish and flick of the catflap. Jolts shoot through my entire body. I panic, I'm frozen. My heart is racing, my breath comes in ragged gasps. Mock sleep or mock study? I bolt blindly for the table, make it back to my old spot and just manage to sit down in something approaching a normal position when he strolls in, bringing a gust of smoky autumn air with him. He smells of the street, endings, alcohol and the promise of winter. He's smiling radiantly and stumbling a little, his eyes slightly hazy, and when he sees me he smiles a smile that would have had Jemima or Etcetera squealing until they were hoarse. I manage to exercise a little more self – control, but only just.

'Ah.' I say, turning back to my book. I can't even remember what it is now. 'You're back. I suppose it was a little optimistic to hope for an entirely undisturbed night. And yet, I confess, I had dared to do so.'

That usually gets him to mutter something facetious and go away, but to my horror he just laughs softly and hops up onto the table beside me, shaking his shaggy head and looking amused.

'Hullo, Mistletoes' he says, giving me a one-armed hug and then slowly flopping backwards into a prone position, flat on his back on the table beside me. 'I think...'m a little drunk, but I knew you'd be up. Reading. Learning. The magic, n'things.' He kicks his long legs idly in the air, batting at the tassels on the lampshade. In the firelight, he looks softer somehow, younger.

I nod, brusquely, trying to focus on the narrow text and not the way the glow is flickering across his sleek torso.

'Y'always learning' he says muzzily 'all the tricks, and the words...it's all you think about, isn't it?'

That's funny, really, I tell myself. Amusing, not tragic.

He's picked up my tail now, and it's getting harder to keep my breathing steady but I can do it, I will do it.

'I love...I love your tail...with the little white splodge and...it's always so soft...it's the best tail...'

_You can never have him._

He's reaching up towards my face now, something like pity in his chocolate eyes.

'You're so silly' he mumbles. He runs an errant finger down my cheek, and I tremble, I can't help it.

_You can NEVER HAVE HIM, _the rational part of my brain reminds me. _He's the Tugger. No matter how nice he's being now, he cannot be pinned down. He will hurt you._

'You know that, don't you? he murmurs, his eyes shut now. 'You know you're completely...soft...and silly...'

_He will take your heart and he will break it. He will never belong to anyone. He will never be yours. _

He sighs, turns over and within seconds he's asleep, curled up on my book, a smile of pure untroubled bliss on his face. I watch him until my heart slows from its pounding tattoo, until his breathing slows so that I can barely see the rise and fall of his narrow ribcage. He sleeps with one leopard-spotted paw curled alongside his face, and the other flung out like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down to be accepted by those who dare.

'Yes' I whisper to his sleeping form. 'Yes, I know. More than you ever will.'

FIN

**A/N – Sorry for the cheeseball ending! And I know there are inconsistencies, like Tugger having fingers **_**and**_** paws, and him being drunk when he's a cat – (If Skimble can drink scotch, why not ****Tugger?), and the blatant overuse of italics, and the general randomness of the writing style, but...what can I say? I wrote this at three in the morning. I'll probably look at this tomorrow and wonder what the hell I was on. But for now, I quite like it, although suggestions are appreciated. If you review I will give you cookies.**

**the above statement may or may not be true.**

**Oh, and if you're feeling sorry for Misto, don't worry. Tugger loves him too. Hard. **


End file.
